Ever Blind
by Ed-LOVER-92
Summary: "And so this is it?" America asked. Something was wrong here, but the Brit didn't really want to leave his stupor to figure out what it was. Very slight US/UK, rated for very mild language.


Ha, first Hetalia fic. Not first fic ever, mind you, just the first I could stand to keep on the site. Very slight US/UK, but that's definitely what I'm angling towards. Serious fic, by the way, so sorry to those of you who wanted fluff. I realize that some of these sentences are either too short or too long to be grammatically correct, but when you're drunk or in pain (or both) then you don't care so much, now do you? So on with it.

"Britain!"

_Oh God, of all the people… of all the days…!_

"You didn't have to lie to me, you know!" _Is he serious? Just because I _lied_?_ "Dude, I get it! You don't like my birthday or anything about it! But to lie about why you aren't coming? Totally lame, man. I knocked on your door for, like, ten minutes! I almost called an ambulance!"

"I didn't lie about anything, thank you. Being sick is just one more reason to go out for a pint," Britain mumbled at him sullenly, almost guiltily, not making eye contact. He knew he was buzzed; his only goal now was to finish off every brain cell that insisted on holding that memory. Of course, America was going to do his damnedest to make sure he couldn't. That seemed to be what America was for, nowadays.

"And so this is it?" America asked. Something was wrong here, but the Brit didn't really want to leave his stupor to figure out what it was. "Did you seriously just skip my birthday party to get drunk by yourself? And I don't even get a happy birthday now that I'm here?"

"It's a birthday. You get one every year; I don't see why it's such a grand affair with you."

"Even _you_ celebrate your birthday! That's a load of crap, and you know it!"

_What's going on?_ "So WHAT?" he asked, giving up.

Silence.

_Silence?_

"So what…. Really…. I know you're bitter about the whole thing, but what… ugh… what am I supposed to do?" America asked.

"Get your idiotic, self-absorbed face AWAY FROM ME, YOU GIT!" The older country stormed suddenly, emptying his wallet randomly onto the bar and slamming the door both open and shut on his way out.

The clear air outside almost helped to calm him down as he stalked down the street, staggering only slightly as he went. Every memory he had left of being with America way back then rushed through his head in sickening sort of waves that seemed to choke him, and quite honestly caused him a terrible headache. He tried to breathe deeper, to map out the stars (few of which he could see here in the city), to decide whether the moon was waxing or waning – anything to get his mind off of his regrettable rage at America– but it all came rushing back with the sound of that athletic young man's footsteps on the pavement behind him. It was all too soon when he felt America's hand on his shoulder, gripping much harder than was comfortable in his haste. Britain's junior swung him around and leaned down to look him in the eye.

"That was ages ago. What…."

His lips were still moving, but Britain didn't catch a word of it. He furrowed his eyebrows for a moment, then his eyes widened, scared.

_America is quiet. America, MY America, is quiet!_

_So he's serious._

"Are you even listening to me?" the island nation heard him huff at last.

"God, how you've grown," he blurted foolishly in response. Once more his companion was startled, but he couldn't just stop there. His eyes started to sting. "You know, I really regret that. I mean, I'm proud of that. Of you, sorry. I just… oh God… if you'd never _grown_…."

"What?"

"No, listen, I really… I mean, I loved… having you around, you were just cute, you have no idea, but you were the cutest kid, and you were nice, and well behaved, and care-free, and I loved that. I loved… you. I still love you. You know what I'm trying to say. You never should have left. That hurt. If you had any idea… but you'll never know, how could you, you wouldn't have left if you did, but it hurt a lot." Britain's slurred voice rose in pitch then, in another wave of nostalgia, and he was struggling not to cry as he reached over to put his hands desperately on America's shoulders. "The whole time I was fighting with France, everyone was against me. I could see it coming, everything was going to fall apart. Was already falling apart. All of it. My whole empire was just… crumbling. And you…." The tears in his eyes finally slipped down his face, and he stopped trying to hold them back. "You… I loved you so much! M-more than anything! And you left! You just… left…."

America looked down at the man he'd called his brother, who was now clutching the front of his shirt (as his hands had slipped from the taller man's shoulders a while ago) and sobbing into his chest like a child, only worse. Worse because this man knew what hardship was, and had lived it, at least in part, because of him. But beyond this fear, he was enraged. Britain found himself on the ground, on his knees.

"As if it were my fault! You kept me locked in that house of yours for years!"

"It wasn't…." _Wasn't safe…._ "The other countries…." _They would have taken you, hurt you…._

"And you just kept me in those few little rooms! A kid needs a place to grow! I felt suffocated!"

"You kept complaining about getting lost…."

"Of course I got lost! Your house was a maze, and all the doors were locked! Even when I managed to get one open, there was just another locked one behind it! It made me _sick_!"

"I DIDN'T WANT TO LET YOU GO!" Britain screamed. Then, quietly, he added, "Who would?"

They stared each other down. England's vision was blurry; he was swallowing every whimper and sob forcing its way to his throat, and was shaking pretty hard from the effort. Finally, America knelt down in front of him. His elder tried to blink the water out of his eyes to see him better.

"You…." the youth started, then sighed and tried again. "You … are _so_ drunk."

And, to both their surprise, America hugged him.

_He's right, I'm drunk off my arse… _he thought miserably, clutching at the back of the other nation's shirt and sobbing into his chest. _So… he really can't blame me… right?_ Slowly, uncertainly, he lifted his face to look at that of his brother… no, the stranger his brother had grown into without him; Britain couldn't feel related to him anymore, not while he was crying, at his mercy. Not after so many years. Even America looked depressed, in his own "I'm strong, I can take it" sort of way. And he _was_ strong. And he _could_ take it….

So the island leaned forward and kissed him. It took a couple moments, but he responded, obviously hesitant, before pulling back worriedly from Britain's still tear-soaked face.

"Look at us, Britain. Still fighting," America sighed. "Let's get you home, man." With that unnatural strength he picked Britain up and flung him over one shoulder into a piggyback position that would have embarrassed the island to no end, were he sober. As it was, he wanted nothing more than to relax and let this young stranger carry him to his house, still a little forlorn as he thought of how long it had been since he and America had been close enough, either physically or emotionally, to touch each other comfortably. Even now, during such a blatantly tender display of caring, his kouhai was tense and edgy in a way he couldn't quite describe.

And he was so _quiet._

Britain wiped his face on the back of America's shirt, and the boy laughed softly.

"I remember when I did the same thing," he noted over his shoulder.

_So do I…. Could it have been so long ago?_ It seemed like he could still feel the much smaller boy's weight on his back, as if he'd only just put him down. Suddenly, the headlights of a passing car caught in America's glasses, and England couldn't help but yank them off to look.

"Ow! Britain, geez! A little warning next time, if you wouldn't mind!"

"… These glasses are bloody thick. Is your … are your eyes that bad?"

"Texas is a big state, dude," America said, trying a bit nervously to laugh it off.

"It's video games, isn't it? You sit there and stare at the stupid telly for hours and hours. America, you're a moron."

Silence again. This wasn't right, on so many levels. No protest, no retort, no sheepish admission… no acknowledgement, not in the least. Britain cursed himself for his low alcohol tolerance; otherwise he might be able to figure out what was so _wrong_ right now. And it was glaringly obvious, he knew that much.

By the time they had reached his house, the smaller nation had reached his limit.

"Oy! America, what the hell?" he pounded the other on the back a couple times before being set down. "I've never had to tell you to talk before, and I bloody well am _not_ going to start now! Sure, it's all well and good to prance about and never belt up when anyone else is around, but with me you can't say a single civil word, is that it? Like you're so… like you're… oh God, America, I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry, please don't…."

He had finally gotten a good look at his former charge's face. Of course, in the odd lighting in the street and low lighting at the bar it would have gone unnoticed, but it was clear now just how dark those circles under his eyes had gotten, how strained and anguished he seemed and how tense even the muscles in his face were at the moment. Now that he could see his face at all, it was far too obvious how blurred and distorted the boy's… the _man's_ own irises were through their building tears. This was why he wouldn't – couldn't – speak.

"I just can't understand, Britain. I'm forced to celebrate a day from a time that tortures us both every single year knowing that you're going to turn down my… my _plea_ to share some of this burden with me in favor of getting drunk and trying to forget I exist," he stated slowly, voice wavering gently with emotion. To his credit, though, he managed to swallow his tears before they could escape his eyes. "Don't you know how much it hurt me, prying myself away from you? I was so broken, so confused and scared and God knows what else for years before I could pick up the pieces and try to make myself into _something_ worth existing at all, just to have you come back, as heartless as I wanted to imagine you were, looking down on me again and doing whatever you could to force me back into that maze house forever. I hate to admit it, Britain, but I'm better off now, and I'm _still_ not happy. And now I'm forced to celebrate every fourth of July, shooting off fireworks that only remind me of canon fire and musket shots and the nights that I panicked about what the hell I was going to do if by some accursed miracle I finally got rid of you."

They stared each other in the eyes for a long, uncomfortable moment, until, without warning, England sighed and turned around to sit on the sofa. After a second, he motioned to America to sit beside him, which the younger nation did somewhat tiredly. Warm arms circled his shoulders and pulled him down, and he found himself lacking the energy necessary to keep his elder from hugging him, awkward position be damned.

"I really am sorry, sweetheart. I should have realized. I'm sorry, I just couldn't see past my own post-partum. I should have been there. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

As America, his America, squirmed a little closer, it dawned on Britain just what had been wrong; he and America simply weren't… _close_ enough.

_Fin_

Well, I think that leaves more than enough room for a sequel fic, but I'm only going to write one if anybody cares. Any reviews at all, please…?


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